


Calm

by herxndale



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:25:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herxndale/pseuds/herxndale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Bucky Barnes Fanfiction. (Reader Insert)</p><p>[discontinued]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Y/L/N = Your Last Name  
Y/F/N = Your Full Name

***

“Agent Y/L/N.”

You look up from the files that are spread across your desk to the young, fidgety intern standing before you. “Yes?”

“I, um,” the intern stutters, her cheeks a deep red. Her eyes flit around the room, never making eye contact with you, a sure sign of her desperation to be anywhere but here. “I just, um…well, Director Coulson wants to see you.”

“Did he say what for?” You ask.

If possible, the intern’s face flames even further. “No,” she says, “He didn’t say anything to me…sorry….”

You smile brightly, not wanting to upset the poor girl. “No matter,” you assure her, “I’ll find out soon enough. Thank you.”

The intern flashes a small, hesitant grin in return and quickly backs out of the room. You see her spin on her heel and take off running down the hallway through the window, and you sigh. You wish she’d told you why Coulson wants you. If he’s somehow found out about….

_No_ , you tell yourself firmly, _You’re fine; Coulson simply wants to know if you’ve finished organizing his field reports._

Nodding to yourself, you stand and exit the office, heading down the hall to the elevator. You press the up button and step inside the box. As the doors close, you suck in as much air as you can, holding your breath and squeezing your eyes shut for the duration of the ascent. You hate tight spaces.

Heart racing, you dive for the gap between the elevator doors as soon as they begin to slide open. You trip over your own feet in your haste, and have to fling out a hand to steady yourself against the wall.

The wall is cold to the touch, and, focusing on the pressure beneath your palm, you order yourself to calm down. A mind spinning in frantic circles comes to a dizzying stop; a pulse running a marathon slows to catch its breath; an uneven wheezing of inhalation and exhalation begins to balance itself out.

_Calm._

Now that you’ve regained your cool composure, you walk towards Director Coulson’s office. In all your time working with S.H.I.E.L.D., you had seen Coulson a grand total of seven times. But you don’t mind your boss’s continual absence; not hearing from him means he isn’t suspicious of you, and that means your secret is safe.

When you arrive at Coulson’s office, you knock on the door three times. You’re called in immediately after the third hit.

“Agent Y/L/N,” Coulson greets you in that voice of his that makes it sound like he’s either constantly amused or making some sort of sarcastic comment. “It’s nice to see you.”

You can’t tell if he’s being serious or not. Not with that voice, or with that small smirk he wears perpetually. “You too, Director,” you reply politely. “May I inquire why you’ve called me to your office?”

“Yes, you may,” Coulson says, the corner of his mouth slowly creeping upward.

“So, uh, why am I here?” You ask, making the inquiry he so hilariously granted you to make.

“I have a mission for you,” Coulson announces, standing up and watching you carefully.

“What kind of mission?” You don’t like the way he’s looking at you, as if you’re some kind of science experiment. His eyes are evaluating, curious; what is he waiting for you to do?

“A mission I believe only you can do,” Coulson answers, still gazing at you with that expression of analyzation. There is no smirk upon his lips.

The oxygen has long since left the room, and your lungs struggle to keep your breathing stable. You can feel your fingers digging into your thighs, even through your jeans. You try to relax them, but they just strengthen their grip.

_Calm._

But you are not calm. Coulson knows. He wouldn’t be looking at you like this if he didn’t. He wouldn’t be making such implications, no matter how vague. _He knows._

You don’t break beneath Coulson’s stare. You straighten your back and push your shoulders down, forcing yourself to squeeze out a, “How so?”

“You’ll see,” Coulson says evasively.

“So, what’s the mission?”

Does he know? Or are you just anxious? Anxious, probably, but still, what’s the mission? _Does he know?_

“Oh. That.” Coulson’s smirk has returned. He picks up a cream colored folder from his desk and hands it to you. “Everything you need to know is inside.”

You take the folder gingerly, opening it as if it’s made of glass. You wait for the inevitable newspaper headline: _Y/F/N: Teenager or Terrorist?_

It isn’t a newspaper headline.

It’s a picture of the Winter Soldier.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: gore and anxiety

Y/N = Your Name  
Y/F/N = Your Full Name  
Y/L/N = Your Last Name

***

There are several things that worry you about your first mission. Especially since it’s your first mission, and you’re already having to hunt down cold blooded assassins. The anxiety you’re feeling now is nothing compared to what you felt in Coulson’s office the day before. You almost wish he had fired you; getting fired is better than getting murdered.

You know virtually nothing about the Winter Soldier. You read his file on the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, but it wasn’t very helpful. Coulson is probably withholding information, anyway. All the file really told you was that the Winter Soldier, formerly James Barnes, was taken by Hydra in the 1940s, who then wiped his memory and ordered him to kill Captain America. Steve is still alive, of course, and the Winter Soldier is nowhere to be found.

Except, S.H.I.E.L.D. does know where he is. This confuses you quite a bit; how do they know where to find a man they’ve so conveniently labeled as “nowhere to be found”? Apparently he’s currently taking refuge at this little farm in the midwest. That’s where you’re going now.

You’re sitting on a quinjet, strapped into your seat with your eyes shut tight. The jet is small, and only has room for you, the pilot, and your duffelbag full of provisions.

You don’t dare open your eyes in fear of the horrific scene that would play out before you, so the only thing dancing on the backs of your eyelids is the conversation you’d had with Skye earlier this morning. It had been strange, to say the least.

The famous Daisy, or Skye, Johnson is an Inhuman known for her destructive power of vibration manipulation, which basically means she can create earthquakes. She’s also a highly respected S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and is even a part of Coulson’s original team. You admire Skye, as does anyone with abnormal powers. She manages to balance being part alien soldier and top secret we-wear-all-black government official, all the while training her own private team of Inhumans.

But meeting Skye hadn’t been exactly what you thought it would be. She seemed nice enough, a little on the distracted side, and really…sympathetic.

“Hi,” you’d said, with a little finger wiggle of a wave. “I’m Y/N.”

“Hey….” Skye had replied, her eyes trained on something in the distance.

“Um.” You stood there awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of your sweater. You turned to see what Skye was so interested in; there was nothing behind you.

Skye finally seemed to realize you were still there, and exclaimed, “Oh! I’m so rude; I’m Skye. You’re Y/F/N, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” you answered, still a little put off by how absentminded she was. You hoped she wasn’t like this when she was fighting Hydra.

Skye looked at you with big, sad eyes, but didn’t say anything more. Clearing your throat, you said, “So, um, I’m going on a mission. To find the Winter Soldier.”

Skye made a noncommittal noise of pity, similar to one you would make if you saw a stray puppy. “I’m sorry, Agent Y/L/N, but it had to be you,” she told you before promptly walking away, waving to another agent across the room.

 _It had to be you?_ What is that supposed to mean? Skye’s comment has been bothering you all morning; does Skye know something about the mission that you don’t? Are you walking straight into a trap?

Everything about this mission seems to be off. You’d spent the last thirty-six hours tracking down as many agents you could find to ask them whether Coulson might’ve made a mistake with your assignment. They all told you that Coulson never makes mistakes. Half of them wouldn’t make eye contact with you.

What’s the big secret? Is it about the Winter Soldier? Who, or what, are you going to find when you arrive at that farm? Are you, like, bait or something? Are you supposed to let the Winter Soldier kill you so that S.H.I.E.L.D. can use your death as a distraction to help them capture this assassin?

You’re trapped inside your mind, stuck listening to the same thoughts and worries over and over again. The pilot – Clara, you think her name is – tried starting a conversation (“Nervous flyer?”), but you couldn’t reply in fear that you’d puke if you opened your mouth.

Among other things, you’re stressing out about the mission, Skye’s bizarre apology, and the whole being-really-high-off-the-ground thing. Oh, and is it bad that whenever you open your eyes you see six of everything? Should you mention that you might be having a mental break down to the pilot?

You decide against it. You’ve never told anyone about your little “fits,” much less the visions. Why start now? This is the rationale you use for the rest of the flight.

Clara the pilot calls back that the descent is about to begin. You feel your chest tighten with anticipated dread, and clench your fists so hard that your fingernails cut into your skin. Suddenly, your hands feel wet. Forgetting that opening your eyes will only bring you nightmarish visions, you look at your hands. They are coated in a sticky, red substance. Blood. It pools in your palms and runs down your arms, dripping onto the floor.

Panicking that Clara might see your massacred hands, you quickly try and wipe them on your pants. You’re wearing jeans; maroon handprints are now stained onto them. You only scrub at your thighs more vigorously, and as you watch, the skin from your hands begins to fall off in pieces.

You stop trying to get rid of the blood and stare at your palms in horror. There are gaping holes in the middles of your hands deep enough that you can see your own skeletal fingers. Blood pours from them, and soon your clothing is soaked through and clinging to your body with gore.

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks, and you scratch feverishly at your forearms, tearing your own flesh off your body. You scratch, and scratch, and scratch, until you go to feel your face and find that it’s nothing but bone. You try to find your eyes, but your fingers fall through your eye sockets instead.

You are a living skeleton.

You’re jolted out of the vision as the jet smacks into the ground roughly. Your body jerks forward, and you take a couples minutes to just let your head hang forward and take a few deep breaths as the plane rolls to a slow stop.

_Calm._

It was all just a trick. You are not a skeleton; you’re a human being with flesh and eyes.

_Calm._

You take a deep breath and allow yourself to peek at your hands. They are no longer painted red. They bear tiny, crescent moon shaped imprints, but nothing else. Your clothes are dry again, and when you reach up, your eyes are back to normal as well. You almost smile in relief, but a wave of nausea hits you at the same moment, and you stumble outside as fast as you can, barely managing to make it before emptying the contents of your stomach all over the ground.

Clara lingers behind, silently handing you a towel when you’re finished.

“Sorry,” you apologize as you wipe your mouth, highly embarrassed that you’ve just barfed in front of a stranger.

“It’s okay,” Clara says with a little shrug. “Flying isn’t for everyone.”

You return to the quinjet to grab your duffelbag, giving Clara a sheepish smile as you go. Once alone on the jet, you collapse onto your knees and begin to cry. You can’t help it; you had essentially just skinned yourself, and it took a toll on you.

You cry for as long as you think will go unnoticed by Clara, then wipe your eyes and grab your bag. You stand up, tossing the duffel over your shoulder, and clear your throat. You can do this. You can find the Winter Soldier.

_Calm._

When you join Clara outside once more, she hands you a cell phone and a neatly sealed envelope. “The phone has both Coulson’s and my phone numbers in it, and is only to be used for emergencies,” she says. “Understand?”

You nod, taking the phone and slipping it into your back pocket.

“The envelope contains your first set of instructions,” Clara continues, “They’re written by Director Coulson himself, and you’ll receive several of them over the course of the mission. Do not open it until I’ve left.”

“Thanks,” you say, examining the envelope carefully. It’s of average size and is plain white. A navy blue eagle is emblazoned on the front, signifying that it’s from S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Good luck, Agent Y/L/N,” Clara wishes you before climbing back into the quinjet and taking off.

When Clara and the jet are no more but a speck in the sky, you take your first good look at the countryside. You’re in the middle of a seemingly endless sea of yellowing grass that’s nearly as tall as you are. You stand on a single, dusty dirt road that appears to be the only thing penetrating the solid wall of grass. You begin to walk down the road.

You walk for a long time, all the while staring at the envelope in your hands. It seems to be getting heavier the farther you go. You desperately want to open it, but you’re scared of what might be written inside.

When at last you round a corner and find yourself looking at a rundown barn, you admit that you’ll have to open the envelope sooner or later. Before you do so, however, you stop at a dead tree a little ways from the road, and tuck your bag inside the hollowed out trunk. The only thing you keep is a small handgun, which you hide under the waistband of your jeans.

With nothing left to do, you carefully tear the envelope open. A small square of paper is inside. You take it out and look at it with shaking hands. It has a poem written on it.

can a broken bird learn **t** o fly  
a bea **t** en man learn to r **u** n  
like a stream **r** efilled again  
make them **s** trong once more

You read it once. You read it twice. You read it three times. Then you laugh out loud.

Trust.

The poem is telling you to trust.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time you reach the doors of the barn, you’ve read the poem at least fifty times. Why you’d ever thought the message was “easy” was a complete mystery. Yeah, it says to trust, but trust what? Coulson? The Winter Soldier?

You stuff the poem into your pocket roughly, not caring whether it gets crumpled. You are so done with this mission, and it’s only just started. You don’t want to “trust” anyone, and you especially don’t want to open the door that’s looming in front of you.

Taking a deep breath, you slide the rickety door on rusted tracks, giving you a gaping black rectangle for you to walk through. In your mind’s eye, a murderer stands in the darkness, shining eyes and glinting knife the only thing able to penetrate the shadows. You reach back to the gun hidden in your jeans, sliding your fingers across the handle for reassurance. You’re a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. You can take on an amnesiac with a metal arm.

You let your arms fall back to your sides and step into the barn. “Hello?” You call softly, your voice travelling surprisingly far in the empty space.

You can’t see anything in front of you, the pale, quickly fading light behind you becoming more and more appealing as you continue forward.

“Is anyone here?” You ask the blackness.

Suddenly, the door slams shut.

You whirl around, whipping out your gun and blindly taking aim. You cannot see a thing through the gloom; instead, you rely purely on a mental guessing game as to where the door last was and the position of whoever closed it.

You think you shout, “Show yourself!”, but you can’t be sure. The ebony air has taken on the weight of the world, and the pressure in the room slowly increases, squeezing your body like a snake would its prey. Your skin will surely be one giant bruise when the weight subsides.

_Calm._

Your pulse begins to race, your heart pumping frantically in attempt to circulate blood properly.

_Calmcalmcalmcalmcalm._

Your head throbs and your throat closes up, and soon your already useless eyes are streaming. Your ears are filled with a hurried _thumpthumpthump_ , and your lungs are desperately gasping for oxygen but finding none. You collapse onto your knees, then handgun falling to the floor with a barely audible clatter.

You start to cough and splutter, but you can’t seem to reclaim the air that you expel. Your chest feels as if it’s about to burst, and whatever is left of your breakfast leaves your lips. You barely notice when your head hits the ground, your last thought being _I’m going to die._

***

When you regain consciousness, you’re laying on an unfamiliar bed. The blankets are twisted around your ankles, and for a minute you imagine the sheets as snakes, slithering around your feet and squeezing them tighter and tighter, getting ready to strike with venomous fangs.

_Calm._

There are no snakes. They are not going to poison you. You need to just calm down, and take this all one step at a time. You need to recover from your little melt down in the barn.

First things first, don’t panic. Calm. That’s what you are. Calm. Assess the situation, slowly, and _don’t panic._

You blacked out. You’re in a bed of unknown origins, in a small room that’s painted a muted blue color that’s so pale it almost looks white. You stare at the white-blue ceiling and focus on your breathing, trying to find the energy to sit up. With an internal count to three, you heave yourself upright.

The room turns out to be small in size, and contains the bed, a stout, antique dresser with chipped turquoise paint, an uncomfortable-looking chair made of wrought iron to match the bed frame, and a tall lamp in the corner that serves as the only source of light.

You carefully disentangle your legs from the bed sheets and toss them back on the bed halfheartedly. A mirror hangs on the wall opposite the dresser, some of its reflective surface beginning to fall off in tiny fragments.

You walk over to the mirror, but don’t linger long. Your reflection reveals an unhealthily pale face with dark splotches under its eyes and scabbed lips in desperate need of a glass of water. It’s not a very inspiring view of yourself, and you turn your back on the depressing image before your mind can somehow use it to send you into another fit.

Uncertainty flows through your veins with the ease of a river coursing down the back of a mountain. You’re tempted to open the door and find out who the owner of the white-blue room is, but at the same time you want to just stay buried under the covers and formulate an escape plan. But you don’t have your supplies – not the gun, not the emergency cell phone, not even any provisions – and if the mirror wasn’t lying, then your lips need that glass of water before they fall off.

Having made up your mind, you reach for the doorknob and turn it. You step out into the hallway, wincing as your shoes hit the floor loudly. You consider taking them off so you could sneak around more efficiently, but decide against it in case you need to make a last minute getaway.

You creep down the hall as quietly as you can, which means each of your footfalls can be heard throughout the entire house. You keep expecting someone to leap out at you, but no one does. You pass three other closed doors before reaching the end of the corridor, which opens out into a living room. The living room has an old leather couch, two faded, pastel chairs, and a coffee table. It’s very compact, and leads to a kitchen of equal size.

A single plate and two glasses rest on the counter atop of a dishtowel, presumably left out to dry. You grab one of the glasses and fill it at the tap, as there isn’t a water dispenser on the fridge.

You gulp down the water so fast that you have to pause to catch your breath once you’ve finished it. You’re about to get more when you notice that someone’s outside. You quickly discard to the glass in the sink and peer through the window, trying to see whom the figure belongs to.

Whoever it is is definitely masculine, tall and broad shouldered, and he stands with his arms limp at his sides, his face upturned to the sky. You watch for a while, waiting for him to move, but it’s as if he’s made of stone. You’re going to need to see his face to know who he is.

You push on the kitchen door, intending to silently slip outside, but the hinges shriek, and the man spins around faster than you thought anyone could. The man’s face is still masked by shadows, but there’s one feature that gives him away: his gleaming metal arm.

It’s the Winter Soldier that stands before you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mild swearing

The first thing the Winter Soldier says is: “You’re awake.” It’s a statement, short and to the point, without a hint of surprise or any other emotion thereof. His voice is soft, not like what you would expect an assassin to sound like. You wonder if speaking without menace is all part of his disguise to hide the blood that stains his hands.

You stare at the Winter Soldier, unable to form words. Anything you try to say sticks in your throat, and never passes your lips. You feel paralyzed, rooted to the spot, as if you’ve suddenly been turned to stone. In fact, when you glance down at your unmoving hands, you swear they look a little gray, but you quickly dismiss it as a trick of the light so as not to send yourself into another vision.

The Winter Soldier steps forward, and your legs thaw long enough for you to stumble backwards, away from the murderer. Your back hits the wall of the house forcefully, but you lean into the brief pain that shoots down your spine, willing yourself to melt into the wooden surface behind you. The Soldier silently reverses a couple strides, and watches you from a distance.

You relax against the wall and eye the Winter Soldier warily. He has an unsmiling face with icy blue eyes and a strong, lightly stubbled jaw, all of which is framed by shoulder length brown hair. You imagine he must’ve been a very good looking man before Hydra took him, but his lack of emotion leaves you feeling empty and cold, overpowering any attractiveness leftover from his heyday in the 1940s. He may appear to be in his mid-twenties, but you know better. This man – if you could even call him that – was born a long, long time ago.

The two of you, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and the Hydra agent, stare at each other for several minutes, the sound of crickets and the whispering wind filling the silence that falls like a heavy curtain between you. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the Winter Soldier speaks up. “Are you okay?” He inquires in that low voice of his.

You manage to nod, and after another prolonged pause, you say in a shaky voice, “Did – did you – did you take me from the barn?”

“You couldn’t breathe,” the Winter Soldier offers as a sort of explanation.

You close your eyes for a fraction of a second too long to be a blink. Crap. The Winter Soldier had noticed your breakdown earlier. _Shit._ No one is supposed to know about your hallucinations, not Coulson, not family or friends, and definitely not runaway Hydra agents. He knows you have a weakness now, and you don’t doubt for a second that he’ll use it against you.

You imagine the Winter Soldier telling Hydra, at which point his bosses will steal you away and lock you in a cage like an animal. You watch from behind bars as they slice and dice at you, taking samples and running tests as if you’re some sort of human anomaly. Of course, you _are_ a human anomaly, if you’re even human at all. But that’s not the point. You don’t want to be treated like a middle school science experiment, especially when the one doing the experimenting will most likely kill you when he’s done.

And if the Winter Soldier were to tell S.H.I.E.L.D.? You don’t know how he’d do it, but if Coulson found out that you can _control people’s emotions_ , he’d flip. Or even worse, he’d be intrigued. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t much better than Hydra when it comes to tossing powered people into cells to study them. You’ve had to file reports about the poor souls that get condemned to a life of isolation and examination, and each time you can’t help thinking, _Thank God it wasn’t me._

A wave of nausea washes over you as you picture the outcome of your secret getting told, and your knees give out beneath you. You clutch at the side of the house to stay upright, waving the Winter Soldier away when he moves forward to help you restore your balance. Again, he stops in his tracks, though he’s considerably closer to you than the last time he started to approach.

Leaning heavily on the house for support, you say urgently, “You can’t tell anyone about what happened in that barn.” When the Winter Soldier doesn’t acknowledge what you’ve said, you add on a, “Please,” for good measure, not bothering to hide the desperation that colors your voice. Perhaps he’ll be sympathetic.

No sympathy or any other sentiment whatsoever makes an appearance on his features. “Who is there for me to tell?” He asks without a trace of joke or sarcasm.

“Look, thank you for…helping me, but I have to go,” you tell him. “Can you just point me in the general direction of the barn?”

“You can’t go anywhere,” the Winter Soldier quickly interjects.

Your throat starts to close up in fear. The Winter Soldier doesn’t need to tell anyone for you to be locked up; you’re already a prisoner. Yes, you can see it now: you’ll live out the rest of your life in this box of a house, held captive by a trained assassin. You’ll probably be locked in the white-blue room, and every day the Winter Soldier will give you a rationed piece of cold food, not unlike the way the Dursleys fed Harry Potter. Except Harry Potter had friends who sent him food every so often, whereas you’ll be left to starve until you get so thin that you disappear entirely.

You need to leave. _Now._

“You still haven’t fully recovered from losing consciousness,” the Winter Soldier explains, clearly seeing the agitation that’s painted across your face.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, “The after effects usually only last a couple hours.”

“Are you unconscious often?” The Winter Soldier wonders.

You bite your tongue to keep from letting out a long string of curse words. Instead of expressing the colorful language you feel inclined to spew, you give the Soldier a tight smile and say, “No, of course not. I’ve hit my head once or twice before, that’s all.”

“You should still stay here,” the Winter Soldier insists.

No. You should most definitely not stay here. You should run away as fast as you can.

“I need to go,” you argue, trying sound commanding.

“It’s late. At least stay the night,” the Soldier bargains.

You consider his offer. If you stay the night, then you can map out an escape plan. Once he’s asleep you could probably sneak right out the front door…. After snooping around, of course, and digging up anything even remotely interesting. Then all you have to do is find the barn again, call Coulson, and get the hell out of this barren wasteland. When you get back to S.H.I.E.L.D., you are _so_ quitting the job.

“Okay,” you agree, “I’ll stay. But only for the night.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: gore and sadness (?)

Y/N = Your Name  
Y/F/C = Your Favorite Color  
Khorosho = Good; Okay [Russian]

***

After a funny little dance outside the house where both you and the Winter Soldier insisted that the other should enter first, you end up seated at a circular, wooden table across from the notorious assassin.

Canned soup that had been heated up on the stovetop and poured into ceramic bowls sits untouched before you. You fiddle with your spoon, staring blankly at the meal as it sloshes around in its dish. The Winter Soldier eats slowly, watching you closely as you avoid your food. You notice that his robotic arm is kept firmly by his side, never once lifting above the surface of the table.

Several drawn out minutes of you clinking your spoon pass by, and eventually the Winter Soldier asks, “Are you not hungry?”

You glance up, quickly averting your eyes before eye contact can be made. “Yeah, I guess I just don’t have much of an appetite after passing out,” you lie. In truth, you’re starving, but you don’t particularly want to eat potentially poisoned food. You want to be able to slip out of the house without being slowed down by having to throw up anything toxic you’d had at dinner.

The Winter Soldier nods in what seems like understanding. You can’t really tell, as his face is still a mask. “That makes sense,” he says before falling silent once more.

Now it’s your turn to nod, as if you’ll somehow break the tension with subtle movements. “Yep,” you agree awkwardly. You realize you’re still nodding, and quickly bring your weird head bobbing to a stop. You don’t want the Winter Soldier to think you have some kind of obscure disease.

“Do you want it?” You ask, holding out the bowl of soup in offering.

The Winter Soldier takes it singlehandedly and silently, cautious not to let his fingers brush yours. You observe the Soldier’s steady rise and fall of his regular arm, the soft slurp of soup being eaten, the way he keeps his eyes lowered so as not to clash with yours. You’re grateful you don’t have to make eye contact; it makes you uncomfortable to have a professional murderer looking at you.

When the Winter Soldier finishes, you reach across the table and stack both bowls, standing with them and taking them to the sink. It’s more out of habit than of courtesy that you do this, but you wash the dishes without complaint, your gaze glued to the Soldier’s reflection in the window. He has his back turned to you, seemingly unmoved since you left.

As you place the bowls out to dry, something catches your attention in the bottom of one. There appears to be movement on the inside of the glazed china. You bring the bowl closer for a better look, and nearly drop it when you realize what it is you’re seeing. It’s a miniature version of you kneeling on the ground, your arms wrapped tightly around a limp body, a bloodied knife discarded a little ways from where you and the obviously dead person are.

You set the bowl down abruptly, its lip hitting another piece of tableware with a loud clang.

“Is everything alright?” You hear the Winter Soldier ask.

You whirl around at the sound of his voice, your eyes wide in panic.

“Did I scare you?” He says.

You let out a deep breath and shake your head to rid your mind of the image. “Sorry,” you say, though you’re not exactly sure why you’re apologizing.

You can feel your hands shaking at your sides, your pulse stuttering as well. “I think I’m going to go to bed now,” you tell the Winter Soldier, turning and carefully walking back to the room you had woken up in, focusing on not having your jelly-like legs collapse from under you.

When you reach the room, you immediately lower yourself onto the bed and close your eyes.

_Calm._

Your heartbeat slows, and a single tear streaks down your cheek. You don’t bother to wipe it away, just sit and allow the tears that follow to fall like rain.

***

You wait a couple hours before slipping out of your room. Your eyes have long since dried, and though your body is heavy with exhaustion, you force yourself upright and into the hallway. From there, you decide to sneak into the room directly opposite yours.

The new room is painted a mellow yellow, and it reminds you of lemons. It contains a small couch, a bookshelf decorated in dusty volumes, and a pristine desk with a chair tucked under it. There’s another door leading from the room, and when you open it, you find it’s just a bathroom, not some top-secret Hydra agent torture chamber. You’re half relieved, half disappointed. If it had been the Winter Soldier’s niche for hiding skeletons, you could’ve used that information to take back to S.H.I.E.L.D., but then again, who really wants to find a closet full of bodies?

You take a look around, starting first with the bookshelf. The titles it bears are mostly from a long time ago, some of the more popular ones being Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, and Jane Eyre. Most of them had been published before 1950; you figure this is probably because the Winter Soldier is nearly a hundred years old, and doesn’t know much about the modern world, books included.

You move on to desk now, hoping for some interesting paperwork or something that you can use as evidence that you met the Winter Soldier and can give to Coulson with a big fat _Been there, done that, now get me the hell out._

You fully intended to rifle through the drawers of the desk, but a picture sitting on the otherwise empty surface catches your eye. It’s a black and white photograph of two young men, the taller of the two with his arm around the shoulders of the second, who’s extremely skinny and considerably shorter.

You pick up the picture to get a better look, and let out a small gasp. You stretch your figures out and let them brush the glass with a ghost of a touch. You stare at the taller man, who’s dressed in army attire and grinning so hard his eyes squint so they’re almost closed. Though his hair is much shorter than it is currently, the man is unmistakably the Winter Soldier. And beside him, the shrimpy, annoyed-but-slightly-amused boy must be Steve Rogers.

Both men have gone through obvious changes, what with Steve’s transformation into a supersoldier and the Winter Soldier’s “death” that lead him to becoming a Hydra agent. But it’s not the poster boy of America’s comical scrawniness that stands out to you. It’s the Soldier’s smile.

Since waking up in the Winter Soldier’s lair, you’ve seen zero emotion on his face, heard no sentiment in his voice. Here, in the photo, his grin seems to change him into someone entirely different. Laughter creases the skin by his eyes, and you can feel your own lips curving upward just by looking at the man before he was turned into an assassin.

You go to set the picture down, and it slides from between your fingers, landing on the floor with a loud shattering noise, the frame bursting into tiny pieces from the impact. 

Cursing under your breath, you quickly kneel and begin scooping up the little shards of glass. Their sharp edges prick your hands, and blood begins to bead your skin. You ignore the pain, and reach out to collect more broken glass. Your hand submerges into a thick, warm substance, and you bite back a scream.

Looking down in panic, you stare at your hand, which is coated in a red liquid that drips from your fingers and runs down your arm. You stand up hurriedly, your feet sloshing around as you do so. It’s then that you notice the floor has been flooded by the same stuff, which you soon recognize as blood. Somewhere in the back of your mind you register that you’re imagining everything that’s happening, but you’re too concerned by the fact that your pants have been soaked through and are now colored a deep maroon.

You sludge through the blood, your stomach twisting in disgust. With every step you take, waves ripple through the red sea, and you wonder where all the gore is coming from.  
Your question is answered as the door to the bathroom slowly opens, revealing a collection of dead bodies.

They’re standing up as if they’ve been hung up like coats, and their heads are all slumped at an odd angle, their throats and wrists slit wide open. You stumble over to the corpses, and –

A loud crash jolts you from your nightmarish vision. You stand in front of the bathroom door, clutching a handful of broken glass and gasping for breath. You look around, searching for the blood that had filled the room, but all you can find is a small trail of red droplets that drips from your fist.

You walk into the bathroom to throw away the slices of picture frame, and when you turn around to leave, a curtain of carcasses blocks your way. You start to back away from the bodies, when you feel something bump into you. You whirl around, and find a vacant face staring back at you, his neck still gushing blood.

You clamp a hand over your mouth to keep from shrieking, and close your eyes, which are streaming like waterfalls.

_Calm._

You brave a peek at the bathroom, lifting your eyelids a crack. The empty shells of skin still surround you. You squeeze your eyes shut again.

_Calm!_

Another quick look. No change.

_Calm, Y/N, CALM!_

This time, when you open your eyes, the bathroom has returned to normal. You dart out into the lemon room so quickly you nearly trip over the chair that sits beneath the desk. You gather up the rest of the glass and set both it and the fallen photograph on the top of the desk, not wanting to brave another trip into the meat locker.

Without bothering to wash your hands, you scurry out of the room, closing the door softly behind you. Once in the hallway, you hear heavy, staggering footsteps and a second thud.

Curious, you tiptoe into the living room, where a large book lays face down and open upon the floor. Frowning, you step over it and continue into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, one of the chairs has been knocked over. You place the chair upright once more, staining some of the wood red. You attempt to wipe some of the blood off with the hem of your shirt, and as you glance around the kitchen for clues, you notice a dark shadow outside. You walk over to the door, which has been left slightly ajar. Veins pumping with adrenaline, you slip out of the house.

When you realize whom the shadow belongs to, you can’t help but feel surprised. For the second time in twenty-four hours, you find yourself staring at the silhouette of the Winter Soldier. Except this time, he isn’t standing. Now he’s kneeling in the grass, knees firmly planted upon the ground, his shoulders shaking silently.

You take small, hesitant steps toward him, and call out, “Hello?”

The Winter Soldier jerks upright, his back straightening in a fraction of a second, his slumped appearance dissolving. “Yes?” He replies, his voice sounding thick. It’s the first emotion you’ve ever heard him bear.

“Was that you who knocked that chair over?” You ask.

“Yeah,” the Winter Soldier says without looking at you. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“It’s fine,” you tell him, “I wasn’t getting much sleep anyways.”

There’s a long pause, and you take a couple more brave steps forward. “Are you okay?” You venture.

“I’m fine,” the Winter Soldier answers stoically.

“Okay,” you say, now standing just behind him. You sit down next to the Soldier, and look over at him. His eyes are focused somewhere far off, his face just as stonelike as ever. However, this statue looks as if it’s been rained on, and the trace of tears glisten on his cheeks. You find yourself wishing he would smile the way he had in the picture in the lemon room, as if there wasn’t a worry in the world.

“Why are you crying?” You can’t help but wonder. It’s a perfectly valid question. What would an emotionless man have to cry about?

“I’m not crying,” the Winter Soldier insists.

“Okay,” you repeat, despite the obvious evidence suggesting otherwise.

After several drawn out minutes, the Winter Soldier finally says, “I had a nightmare.”

You’re shocked, to say the least. Him? Having a nightmare? Impossible. And what kind of nightmare could scare someone like him so badly that he stumbled all the way outside and fell to his knees crying?

“Do you want to tell me about it?” You offer.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t look at you, just says, “Sometimes I forget who I am.”

It’s not an actual answer to the question, but you don’t push it, as it’s clear he’s in a delicate state.

“I have nightmares too,” you say, though you’re not exactly sure why. He’s a lethal assassin, who can kill you without a second thought. He’s a Hydra agent whom you’ve been assigned to spy on because he’s a threat to S.H.I.E.L.D., one of the most capable agencies in the world. But something keeps nagging you, keeps making you think that maybe, just maybe, he really is just a man. Maybe he’s human after all.

The Winter Soldier looks at you for the first time since you came outside. “Do you forget who you are?”

You smile sadly, and reply, “Sometimes.”

“Why?” He asks.

“I…” _I’m legally insane. I have visions from hell that I can’t control. I can’t tell fantasy from reality. Oh, and I can control people’s emotions. Kind of scrambles your mind, ya know?_ “It’s complicated,” you say lamely, tugging at the grass and uprooting it.

You stop destroying the field and shift a little, so you can see the Winter Soldier better. “I’ll tell you what, though,” you say.

The Winter Soldier looks at you curiously. “What?”

“It gets easier,” you say.

“How so?” The Soldier inquires.

“Okay. This might sound a little crazy, but bear with me. What’s your name?” You ask.

The Winter Soldier doesn’t answer immediately. His face screws up like he’s thinking – the first time you’ve ever seen him do that – and you remember that Hydra took away all his memories. Is it possible that he even forgot his own name?

“Any name,” you try again. “Just choose one your like.

The Soldier considers a little longer, then settles on, “Bucky.” Ah, yes. His old nickname from the 1940s. Bucky Barnes.

“Okay, Bucky. Nice to meet you,” you say, holding out your hand for him to shake. You give him your right arm so as to match up with his human arm, and he hesitantly grasps your hand.

You shake his hand gently, and as you pull away, he says, “Wait. What’s your name?”

“I’m Y/N,” you tell him.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “Is that your real name?”

“If I choose it to be real, then it’s real. That’s how the game works,” you say, dodging the question like a pro. Maybe you should’ve been a politician, what with your superb question avoidance skills. You could’ve run for president.

“Okay,” the Winter Soldier – no, Bucky – says.

“Now tell me a bit about yourself,” you continue. “It can be anything: what your favorite food is, what kind of car you want. Anything, except for things like major life events or something that impacted you negatively. We only want the little things, because at the end of the day, those are all that really matter.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Here, I’ll go first,” you offer. “My name is Y/N, I like reading murder mysteries, my favorite color is Y/F/C, and…I sing in the shower.”

Bucky nods like he understands. “My name’s Bucky, and I’m…I…” He trails off, struggling to find something to say.

“It can be anything,” you remind him gently.

Now Bucky gets frustrated at his lack of answers, and punches the ground lightly with his flesh fist. “There’s nothing to say,” he says savagely, “Bucky doesn’t exi –”

“No,” you interrupt, “Bucky _does_ exist – he’s sitting right beside me. Now tell me one thing. One tiny, itsy bitsy detail about yourself.”

“I…I can speak Russian,” Bucky offers.

You beam. “There. That’s it. Your name is Bucky, and you _can_ speak Russian,” you congratulate. “So whenever you forget who you are, you remind yourself of what makes you Bucky.”

“Khorosho,” Bucky replies in what is presumably Russian.

“Now how about we go back inside?” You suggest.

Bucky tenses up as a show of his discomfort.

“I’ll sit with you,” you say. Whoa. You don’t know where that came from. But really, Bucky, this Winter Soldier, hasn’t done anything particularly dangerous yet, unless you count knocking over a chair. You figure you’ll take your chances and stay overnight, then contact S.H.I.E.L.D. tomorrow.

“Okay,” Bucky relents.

The two of you stand and enter the house together. Once inside, Bucky demands, “What happened to your hands?”

“What?” You ask, thoroughly confused.

“Your hands,” Bucky repeats, grabbing them in his own. You flinch when the metal of his left hand meets yours, and he immediately removes his robotic hand and apologizes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “It was just cold, that’s all.”

Bucky drops your other hand and moves over to the sink noiselessly. He retrieves a paper towel, and once it’s sufficiently damp, he returns to your side, and taking your hand once more, begins to carefully wipe them off.

“There’s glass in your skin,” Bucky observes, extracting a red-tinted shard of picture frame from your palm.

“I, uh, knocked something over,” you say, your cheeks warming in embarrassment.

“What’d you knock over?” Bucky inquires, pulling out another sliver of glass.

“Um, that picture of you and St – your friend,” you reply, hoping he didn’t notice your slipup. If Bucky finds out that you’re connected to S.H.I.E.L.D. somehow, especially that you’re an agent, the assassin part of him will most definitely be making an appearance.

Bucky looks up at you, amusement glittering in his blue eyes. “You were looking around my house?” He asks.

Your face floods with more color. “I’m sorry,” you apologize, “I couldn’t sleep, and –”

“It’s okay,” Bucky cuts you off. “I don’t mind.”

You let out a breath of relief and grin sheepishly.

“There you go,” Bucky says, straightening up and throwing the bloodied paper towel away.

You examine your freshly cleaned hands, which are still dotted with a couple pinpricks of red from the recently removed pieces of glass. “Thanks, Buck,” you say brightly.

Bucky inhales sharply, and you look up at him, concerned. “Are you okay?” You inquire.

“Yeah,” Bucky nods, “It’s just that no one’s called me that in a long time.”

You smile, walk a couple strides closer, and give him a hug. He stiffens in surprise, but relaxes eventually and wraps one arm around you awkwardly. His metal one remains firmly by his side.

Pulling away, you say, “Come on. You need to get some sleep.”

Still a bit startled, Bucky leads you to his room. It’s slightly larger than the room you’re staying in, but not by much. It has a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a chair, and a mostly empty bookshelf.

You pull the chair up beside the bed and sit down, and Bucky sits across from you on the bed. The two of you sit there for a couple minutes, looking at one another, the silence dreadfully awkward. Finally, you say, “Please, Bucky, go to sleep.”

Bucky slowly lays down, even though he’s still wide awake.

You clear your throat. “Once upon a time,” you begin.

“What are you doing?” Bucky inquires.

“Telling you a story, now shush,” you scold before continuing.

“Once upon a time there was a little girl. She lived alone with her little brother, her mother having died some years ago. As the eldest, it fell to the little girl to take care of her brother, and she did so, for many years.

“But she was no ordinary girl. She had the ability to make people feel good, if she wanted to, or bad, if that was what she preferred. She did not tell anyone of this ability, until one day her brother fell ill. The girl decided to try and cure her little brother, so she laid her hands on his and willed him to feel better, and the next morning, he claimed he was no longer sick.

“From then on, the girl would take her brother’s hands in her own and wish him well, and the following day it would be so. But the more she used her power, the more the girl felt its side effects. She saw things she shouldn’t see, heard things she shouldn’t hear. And sometimes, she even forgot who she was.

“And one day, when she was imagining something that didn’t exist, she murdered her own little brother. She only realized what she’d done until after it had happened. Overcome with despair, the girl started taking her sorrow and pain out on other people.

“She didn’t kill anyone else, but after terrorizing someone so badly that they ended up in the hospital, the government had to be brought in. It was quickly decided that the girl was insane, and so she was taken away to a place where she could get better.

“Eventually, she woke up, and discovered that everything that had happened was nothing but a nightmare. The girl opened her eyes on an island far, far away, with her brother lying beside her. He grinned at her and she at him, and they walked away together, hand in hand, at peace with the world.”

The ending is a lie, but you want the story to end on a good note, if not for Bucky’s sake, then for yours. If you pretend that you ended up free, then maybe you still might. Not that it really matters. Bucky’s asleep now, so he didn’t even hear the ending.

You sigh, and adjust Bucky’s blankets absentmindedly. You wish you had known that this mission would be a convention for insane, sleepless, murderers. You probably wouldn’t have come if it had been mentioned in the job description.


	6. Chapter 6

Y/N = Your Name

***

He is six feet – and three quarters of an inch – tall. One hundred ninety-two pounds of broad shoulders and muscled arms. He has the face of an angel, but it is Satan who speaks in his ear. You know that, should he turn around, his eyes would be empty.

But he does not turn around. He faces forward like any good soldier, and never gives so much as a backwards glance. He keeps his head down, the hood of his black sweatshirt pulled low over his brow. Hands stuffed in pockets, his breathing shallow and silent. The only thing that makes noise is the echoing drip of a loose pipe, and the occasional splashing of his shoes in the puddles that line the damp corridor.

Long, fluorescent lights are fastened to the ceiling, flickering and casting twisted shadows along the stained concrete walls. Sometimes creatures prowl against the gray backdrop, stalking their prey as he continues down his path.

A single door lies at the end of the hall, made of solid vibranium and only accessible by a select few with the corresponding thumbprints to the scanner that’s placed beside the door. It’s not the most foolproof of security systems, but the point isn’t to keep people out; it’s to keep people in.

He places his thumb on the scanner, and the light flashes green, the door’s locks coming undone to admit him. He steps through the opening, and the vibranium barrier slams shut once more, not to be opened again until the next eligible person came along.

Pulling his hood off and entering the room fully, he’s greeted by bony fingers clutching barred enclosures and wide, hungry eyes. He steps past each of the prisons, the inmates shrinking back, though their gaunt hands remain. Ignoring the detainees, he continues to a desk in the back corner. The old sentinel is slumped in the chair, his head lolling in an unnatural manner.

The newcomer doesn’t pay any attention to the dead man beside him. He reaches for the various files scattered across the desk’s surface, taking up the first one his fingers brush. He opens it, a thin cloud of dust collecting in the air. The words at the top of the page read: Asset No. 112, Received Jan. 14, 2007.

Three thousand two hundred thirty-six days ago.

You know that number well, and keep adding one more tally every morning you wake up still alive.

***

“Y/N.”

A hand comes to rest of your shoulder, and you jerk awake.

_Three thousand two hundred and thirty-seven._

Glancing up, you see your newfound assassin friend standing beside you.

“Bucky,” you mutter, pulling away from his touch.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, his eyebrows briefly twitching in confusion.

“I’m fine,” you say, a touch of irritation coloring your voice. You’re in a bad mood this morning, and all you want is to be left alone.

Standing up and walking over to the window, you move the blinds aside with your fingers, peeking outside. The continuous field of dead grass glows in the early morning light, rippling lazily in a gentle breeze. A creak of the wooden floorboards tells you that Bucky has left the room, and you relish the solitary of your thoughts.

The dream follows you, tugging at your sleeves just like all the ghosts that call your arms home. Another piece of the puzzle, given to you freely, yet impossible to place on the board. All the broken fragments of your past keep resurfacing, but their edges are still blurred, making it impossible for you to make any sense of them.

You realize your hand is shaking, and drop it from the window, the blinds clattering against one another at their release. Memories are such a poisonous thing, and you become addicted to finding answers, when instead you should be running from them.

But there are so many people, all crammed inside your head, begging for you to discover them and fit them into their slot on your timeline. Most of them you don’t even remember, but that doesn’t keep their voices from screaming out, reverberating off the inside of your skull, a throbbing headache of confusion and fear.

Subconsciously, your fingers seek out the scar on the side of your neck. It’s a tiny puncture wound, a mark left behind from being injected so many times with various drugs and simulations. Most people don’t even notice it, but you can never forget it. Though your skin bears many other injuries, most of which are much more horrific than a nearly nonexistent puncture, this one, miniscule blemish brings back the most pain.

Every time their hand came so close to your face that every pockmark on their skin was visible, a syringe held between their fingers, you felt weak. Helpless. That, at least, was your own emotion. Most of the time, everything inside you is borrowed, fake. But the sheer terror of imprisonment and torture – that can never be counterfeited.

You turn around, still touching the small scar on your neck, and realize that Bucky never left the doorway. He watches you with calculating eyes, evaluating every movement you make. It’s as if he can see straight through whatever lies you put up as shields, and then makes mental notes of it all to use for later.

All too abruptly, you’re reminded that he’s a trained killer, and everything you do he files away to wield as a weapon. You lift your gaze so that it clashes with Bucky’s, inhaling sharply at the intensity with which you’re confronted. You hold your breath, your chest having caught on it and not let go.

“I should go,” you say suddenly, your voice unexpectedly loud.

Bucky doesn’t reply.

“I should really get going,” you repeat in a softer tone, running your hands through your hair and glancing around nervously. “Thanks for everything.”

You walk out of the room hurriedly, brushing past Bucky on your way out. When you reach the front door, your hand on the knob, Bucky says, “This is yours.”

You jump, startled, and whirl around. Bucky’s humanoid hand is stretched out before you, the handgun you had dropped in the barn sitting in his palm. Your heart hammers in your throat, and you swallow hard. He knows. He has to. Your powers, your employment at S.H.I.EL.D. – he knows everything. No normal person just carries around weapons, then bursts into barns with said weapon drawn. No normal person begins to suffocate for reasons unseen, passes out, and then decides to spend the night with lethal murderers. You need to get out before he figures all of this out. If he hasn’t already, that is.

You snatch the gun out of Bucky’s palm and shove it into the waistband of your jeans. Without even saying “Thank you,” you scurry out of the house and race down the dirt path. You don’t bother looking back, allowing your feet carry you as fast and far as they can. You flee as if your life depends on it, which, in all seriousness, it might.

When your lungs are fit to burst, you stumble to a gasping stop. You lean over, resting your hands on your knees, your chest heaving mercilessly. After regaining the ability to breathe normally, you straighten and look around. You’re standing on the narrow trail, and the shoulder-height yellowing grass surrounds you. In the distance you see the house, and the horizon in every other direction is empty.

Alone and lost, you feel unshed tears burning behind your eyes. Why did Coulson ever think you could do this? The fact of the matter is that you’re simply not strong enough. You’re not strong enough to be a part of S.H.I.E.L.D., the agency that raises superheroes. You’re no hero. You’re a weak, twelve-year-old girl who’s just murdered her brother.

The swaying grasses vanish, a confining, brick alley taking their place. Trash clutters the ground, small insects and animals scuttling about. The walls of the backstreet seem to stretch infinitely into the sky, and you are trapped.

“Not here,” you whisper in horror, silent tears sliding down your cheeks. “Anywhere but here.”

“Y/N?” A small voice asks behind you.

You turn towards the opening of the alley, and the shadow of your little brother stares up at you in inquiry.

Except that it’s not your brother. His visage flickers back and forth from a sandy haired boy with dirt stained skin, to a faceless, looming figure who calls upon your darkest fears.

“No,” you moan, covering your face with your hands, your knees hitting the ground roughly.

“Y/N,” the demonic person repeats, this time sounding rasping and cold. “Y/N, it’s me. It’s Ty.”

In a flash, the tall figure is knelt beside you, its long, colorless fingers trailing over your cheeks. “Look at me, Y/N,” it says.

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, and suddenly the gentle, ghostlike touch is a fist clenched are your throat. “I said, look at me.” The voice is harsh and demanding, and, out of growing dread, you do as it says.

Peering at you through the depthless darkness that is the monstrous creature’s face, are Ty’s glinting green eyes. They were everyone’s favorite feature, and gave him the power to win over people’s hearts. He could convince anyone to do anything by simply showing his emerald eyes, a feat you have never been able to do.

Ty’s grip loosens for a fraction of a second, allowing you to catch your breath, before returning with full force. Both hands grasp your throat, and push you over so you’re lying on your back. Your brother Tyler’s face looms over you, and you imagine a cruel sneer twisting his beautiful lips.

Your vision starts to blur, and Ty’s face switches to the man’s in the charcoal suit who’d been following you for the past couple months. Sharp, lightly stubbled jaw turns into the snarling face of your braces clad bully, and pigtails graduate to someone new. Bucky. The Winter Soldier. His metal fingers burn against your skin, his lengthy brown hair obscuring his expression.

But then the image of Bucky begins to vanish, much like a bad television connection, and when it dissolves completely, all that’s left is a dirt road, grass, and Bucky gently brushing hair out of your face with his human hand, his metal one kept safely at his side.

You jerk upright, coughing and sputtering. You ungracefully force yourself to your feet, stumbling and wheezing violently. Bucky swiftly stands as well, and you face away from him, hastily trying to recompose yourself. You wipe your cheeks with shaking hands, hoping he doesn’t notice you’re crying, though with the theatrical collapsing and choking, you doubt he missed much of anything.

“Y/N….” Bucky starts, his voice soft.

“I need to go,” you insist, staggering a couple steps down the path.

“Y/N, what the hell just happened?” Bucky demands.

“It was nothing,” you dismiss, continuing to try and walk.

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Bucky argues.

“I’m fine, so…can you just…just point me in the direction of the barn you found me in,” you say, turning your eyes on him nervously.

Bucky watches you steadily for several minutes, then says, “Keep going straight, then take the first right. Go for another couple miles and you’ll reach a small valley. That’s where the barn is.”

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief.

You stumble along for most of the day, finally reaching the barn as the sky begins to darken. You go to the hollowed out tree and uncover the bag you had hidden when you’d first arrived. In the span of nearly no time at all, you down three granola bars and a bottle of water. After devouring another pre-packaged snack, you duck behind the tree and change into a different outfit. You’d been wearing the same thing for two days, and they were starting to look permanently dirt-covered.

When you’ve finished, you plop down wearily, your legs aching from walking so far. You lean against the tree and close your eyes, using the bag beside you as an armrest. The night begins to get cooler and the crickets noisier, lulling you into a sleep-like state. Before you can doze off, you pull the emergency phone from your bag. Selecting ‘Coulson’ on the contact list, you shoot him a quick text:

_Can’t do this. Pick me up tomorrow._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: self hate, violence, mild swearing, bugs

Y/N = Your Name

***

The deafening sound of a car engine wakes you up.

You groggily open your eyes, holding up a hand to block out the blinding rays of sunlight.

Before you idles a fire engine red convertible, which hovers a good two or three feet off the ground. The driver of the levitating car does not come as a surprise to you. Trust Philip Coulson to be in ownership of such technology.

“Get in,” Coulson orders from his seat behind the steering wheel.

You do as he says, slinging your bag into the back seat as you shut the passenger side door. Coulson floors the gas pedal, flying off without saying a word.

“Sweet ride,” you yell over the roaring wind.

Coulson smirks. “I know,” he shouts back.

The rest of the ride proceeds in silence, the two of you streaking over bland, grassy landscapes. You at one point reach out in attempt to turn on the radio so you can lessen the heavy quietness hanging in the atmosphere, but Coulson bats away your hand with a simple, stern, “No.”

After at least thirty minutes of travel, Coulson lowers the car, putting her back on her wheels despite the barren horizon. Conveniently having landed in the middle of nowhere, Coulson offers a brief explanation – “I don’t like too many people seeing Lola in the air.” – before revving the engine and driving away on the ground.

After a couple minutes more, the rooftops of buildings come into sight, and soon enough Coulson’s pulled up in front of what looks like a shopping strip. Several fragmented, wooden structures stand, broken signs advertising shops sitting in their front yards. There isn’t a person in sight, and you fight a smile as you imagine the strange, out of place strip as a western ghost town with tumbleweeds blowing down the streets.

The car slows to a stop outside of the shop at the end of the row. “Come on,” Coulson says, getting out of the car and walking over to the building. You follow him, noting the hand-painted word “Bar” on the grimy front window. You glace behind you, half expecting a cowboy to jump out of nowhere.

The inside of the bar is dim and clouded, the smoke coming from a man with a thick cigar drooping between his lips. Cigar-man sits at a table in the back of the bar, surrounded in gloom. He watches you and Coulson enter, but says nothing. Two other men are seated at the bar, a game of cards and several shot glasses placed between them. The bartender hovers over them, watching the game and refilling their glasses as needed.

“Phil,” the bartender says in greeting when he sees Coulson.

“Nix,” Coulson returns. Nix refocuses on the card game, saying nothing more to Coulson.

“Do you come here often?” You inquire, noting the brief exchange.

Coulson leads you to a secluded table, ignoring your question completely.

Once the both of you are seated, Coulson places his elbows on the table, leaning forward so as to see you better. “Agent Y/L/N,” he begins, his voice serious.

“I’m sorry, Director,” you blurt out before he can continue. “I just couldn’t do it. I had to get out of there.”

“Agent Y/L/N, I gave you a mission,” Coulson states.

“I know, and I am so, so sorry,” you apologize again.

Coulson holds up a hand to silence you. “I gave you a mission, and then, thirty-eight hours into said mission, I get a text telling me to pick you up. Why?” You open your mouth to answer, but he plows on. “I’ve had agents who didn’t even last thirty minutes into a mission. You know what happened? They died.” You flinch, imagining people dressed in black, sneaking into a facility only to be struck down before reaching the doors. “But you? You are in perfect condition. I didn’t order you to infiltrate anything, or take out one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s enemies,” Coulson says.

“No, but you did order me to live with a renowned assassin,” you retort. “What the hell was that little poem supposed to mean, anyways?”

Coulson winces. “That was Skye’s and Simmons’ idea. They thought that if they made the mission more like a game, you’d take it easier,” he explains.

“None of this is a game to me, Director,” you growl.

Coulson eyes you curiously. “What is this really about, Agent Y/L/N?”

You blink, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Why are you actually quitting this operation?” Coulson clarifies.

“I’m not quitting,” you say, avoiding eye contact.

“Yes you are,” Coulson says placidly.

“Look,” you say, licking your lips nervously. “There are things you don’t know about me –”

You mean your ability to control people’s emotions through physical contact? Because I know all about that,” Coulson tells you.

You feel as if you’re heart has just stopped. _He knows?_

“What?” You manage to gasp.

“I know about your powers, Agent Y/L/N, and I know about the side effects too. I like to know who I’m employing. A simple background check through the S.H.I.E.L.D. database got me more than enough information,” he says.

“But – but –” You blink back tears, not believing what you’re hearing. “All this time I thought I had kept this a secret, you knew?”

“Wanda said it’d be best if we let you tell us in your own time,” Coulson says.

“Wanda?” You choke out. “Wanda Maximoff?”

“The two of you have surprisingly similar abilities,” Coulson confirms.

“I can’t believe this,” you mutter.

“Well you had better, because I’m sending you back to the Winter Soldier’s quarters,” Coulson says matter-of-factly.

“You can’t send me back,” you plead, “I’ll go insane.”

“According to your file, you already are,” Coulson says. “So suck it up and do your job. That’s what I hired you for, wasn’t it?”

“Fine,” you snap, “But first, you have to buy me a drink.”

***

After returning to the barn and taking the long hike back to Bucky’s house, you step onto the porch, gripping the strap of the bag over your shoulder tightly. You lift your fist and knock on the door, the sound of heavy footsteps coming from inside the house.

“Hello?” A masculine voice says as the door swings open.

“Bucky, I –” You cut off immediately when you see who’s standing in the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You demand. Before you stands none other than Captain America, in all his star spangled glory. Actually, he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but you can practically feel him emitting patriotism.

“Damn,” is all he says.

The two of you have never met before, but after New York, everybody knows who Captain America is, and based on what Coulson had told you earlier, you aren’t surprised that the Captain has heard of you too.

“Who is it, Rogers?” Bucky calls from somewhere in the house.

“No one,” Steve starts to say.

At the same time, you yell, “It’s Y/N!”

“Y/N?” Bucky appears behind Steve, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I thought you had left,” he says.

“Well, I’m back. May I come in?” You say this last bit to Steve, who looks pretty adamant about not moving.

“Yeah, of course,” Bucky says, and Steve grudgingly moves aside. Gesturing both you and Steve into the living room, he adds, “I wasn’t expecting you to come back.”

“I decided to stay just a bit longer. I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” you say, not entirely untruthfully.

“Don’t you have a house or something?” Steve inquires.

Bucky shoots Steve a dirty look. “Sorry for my friend, he can be insensitive sometimes,” he says.

“It’s alright. After all, he is the famous Captain America,” you say.

The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

“So how did the two of you become friends?” You ask, though you already know the answer. They had known each other in the 1940s, and even fought in World War II together.

“It’s a long story,” Bucky says.

“I have time,” you say.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Bucky says pointedly, ice seeping into his voice.

Steve looks over at Bucky sharply, clearly startled by the coldness with which his friend spoke. Bucky avoids eye contact with obvious effort, his metal fingers curled into a tight fist. “I’ll go make dinner,” he mutters, standing rather abruptly and disappearing into the kitchen.

You start to stand as well, but Steve reaches out and gently pushes you back down. “Not yet,” he says, “Let him have some space.”

Sitting down, you look at Captain America curiousty. “What are you even doing here?” You finally ask.

Steve sighs. “I’ve been coming here for some time now, visiting Bucky and keeping him hidden from the world,” he tells you.

“But not S.H.I.E.L.D.?” You inquire, resting your elbows on your knees and leaning forward.

“Especially S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Steve corrects. “I have no idea how Coulson found out about Bucky’s whereabouts, but I had hoped that when you left he would give up on the mission entirely.”

“But he sent me back,” you point out.

“And thus we met at last,” Steve says, sounding slightly bitter.

“No need to sound so heartbroken about it. Everybody wants to meet me,” you joke with a crooked smile.

“Not everybody,” Steve replies stoically.

Your grin slides off your face in an instant. “Do you not want me here?” You ask, though you already know the answer.

“No, I don’t,” Steve says, just as you predicted he would, though the statement still stings like a slap to the face. Seeing my hurt expression, Steve tries to lessen the blow with the explanation, “You being here puts Bucky in danger, both from S.H.I.E.L.D. and yourself.”

“He’s in danger from me?” You laugh humorlessly, lifting your eyebrows in disbelief.

“I know of your powers, Y/N,” Steve says, “And you are a danger to anyone you come into contact with.”

“Are you – the wholesome, righteous Captain America – judging me? For being different?” You inquire mockingly.

“I am merely protecting my friend,” Steve retorts.

“A bit too much, if you ask me,” you scoff.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asks defensively.

“Only that you ought to let your so-called friend off his leash a little more often. Pets don’t typically like being caged for long periods of time,” you say snidely, quickly getting to your feet and exiting the room before Steve can reply.

Upon walking into the kitchen, you find Bucky standing by the stove, stirring a lightly steaming pot. Bucky glances over his shoulder at your arrival, though you hadn’t made a single sound indicating you being there. You force a stiff smile and go to his side, hooking your arm through his flesh one.

“What’s for dinner?” You ask softly, pressing your cheek against his black t-shirt. His bare skin beneath your palms buzzes, calling for you to reach out and tamper with the emotions swimming through his veins. Like a pounding, incessant headache, the urge to take control of Bucky’s feelings roars, but you close your eyes against the lure of your powers, as if by doing so you’ll somehow prove the Captain’s accusations wrong.

Bucky has long since gone rigid at your touch, and you release him, acutely aware of how uncomfortable you’re making him feel. You slump into one of the chairs at the table, feeling dejected. It won’t matter where you go, or how righteous the people you meet are; fear and death will always travel behind you, hiding just inside your shadow. Steve was right. You will only bring the very same to Bucky.

Bucky gracefully lowers himself into the chair across from you. “It’s pasta,” he answers, albeit several minutes late.

“That sounds lovely, Buck, but I don’t think I’ll be joining you for dinner,” you say sullenly, rising and leaving once more.

You pass Steve on your way through the living room, and you pause, holding his gaze. Seizing up your duffel bag, you continue down the hall into the room you’d previously stayed in.

Sitting on the bed, you bury your face in your hands. Against the blackness, Steve appears, dressed in his usual red, white, and blue, his iconic shield strapped onto his back.  
“You’re a danger to everyone,” he says in that lovely voice of his, that, paired with his striking blue eyes and the sharp jaw, makes girls weak at the knees.

“And we all knew for some time,” Coulson adds, making an entrance as well, moving to stand beside the Captain.

“But you did not have the courage to tell us yourself,” a Sokovian accented woman with dark hair says, joining the growing line of offenders.

“We thought you might take it easier if we made it more of a game,” Simmons says in her perpetually apologetic voice, she and Skye appearing as well. The latter offers, “We’re sorry, Y/N, but it had to be you.”

“Give me a chance to change you,” a new, silky, masculine voice says. No new figure materializes, but the row of S.H.I.E.L.D. enemies begins to distort, and finally gives way to a man dressed in a limp suit. He seems to have once been dressed very nicely, but after time and grit, the expensive fabric lies flat and is stained in many places. His shoes are scuffed and have lost their shine, and the soles are coated thickly in mud.

Leaning in close, one of his large, soft, caramel colored hands grabs your chin gently, and forces you to look up at him. He has dark brown hair that’s growing out of its neat, military-style cut, intelligent hazel eyes, and a sharp, stubbled jaw. He is so near to you that you can smell his minty toothpaste mingled with the cheap coffee he drinks.

“Yes, I think you’ll change beautifully,” he says quietly. Releasing your face, he stands and motions someone inside the room you’re kept in. Or rather, the cell. A barred door scrapes open and a filthy, scrawny girl who can’t me more than ten years old enters. The man takes her by the wrist and tugs her over, shoving her to her knees before you. She makes no noise at being thrown around, but her wide, terrified brown eyes glisten with tears.

“Control her emotions,” the man commands. “Do it, or she dies.” He grasps her greasy, unwashed hair in his fist, and now she does cry out. The girl stares up at you, and her face seems to say, _Please. Please don’t hurt me._ The man tightens his grip, and you jump at the girl’s shriek. With shaking hands, you reach out and clasp her grubby fingers.

***

“Y/N?” The bed shifts beside you, and your eyes snap open with a start, a small scream escaping your lips.

“One of your visions,” Steve says. It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” you agree, not looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says sincerely. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I thought you didn’t like me,” you say.

Steve shrugs. “I still don’t want you anywhere near Bucky, and I don’t agree with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s decision to hire you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you,” he says.

You look over with amusement. “Doesn’t it?”

“Look, do you want my help or not?” Steve asks irritably.

“Can I put a raincheck on that offer?” You inquire.

“Of course,” Steve says politely. He stands, and makes to leave.

“Actually,” you call out as he reaches the door. Steve turns around to hear your request. “There’s a girl. She must be at least sixteen by now, if she’s even still alive. She would’ve been with me when I was…well, you know.”

“And what would you like me to do with this girl?” Steve questions.

“Find her,” you implore, somewhat desperately. “Please.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Steve promises, exiting the room.

***

Your dream that night is half memory, half nightmare, though recently you’ve grown to realize they’re basically the same thing.

You’re standing in a graveyard, looking down at a dull, gray headstone. It’s nighttime, and the black sky is empty of both moon and stars. It’s too dark to see the name written on the slab before you, but you’re filled with sorrow just by looking at it, and the cold wind that hits your cheeks tells you that you’ve been crying. You kneel, placing a single white daisy atop the barren ground.

“Y/N.”

You rise, turning your gaze to the speaker. Bucky stands with one hand outstretched, a devilishly handsome smile on his face. His hair is cut much shorter than it is in present day, and he wears a spotless military uniform dating back to World War II. It is the Bucky from the photograph you had found, the pre-Hydra Bucky, the one with both arms intact.

“Would you care for a dance?” He asks, moving his hand in offering closer.

You smile, carefully placing your fingers on his, and he grins at your touch, pulling you close. Bumping into Bucky’s chest, you let out a little laugh, and lean against him as he begins to sway. Imaginary music plays throughout the desolate graveyard, and many minutes pass like this.

Something falls onto your shoulder, and you brush your shoulder absentmindedly, your fingers brushing over a many legged creature. You disregard the insect, but several seconds later another creeps down into the neckline of your shirt. You pull away from Bucky, and feverishly scratch at your neck in search for unwanted critters.

“Is something wrong?” Bucky inquires.

“Bucky, I -” You look up at Bucky and scream in horror.

The handsome soldier who had asked you dance has disappeared, and has been replaced by walking corpse, a mere carcass with patches of rotting flesh clinging to the bone. Spiders and maggots and all sorts of bugs crawl through the holes that disfigure his skin, falling from Bucky’s remains onto the ground.

Bucky’s skeletal mouth curves upwards, even more insects spilling from between what few decaying teeth he still had. “What? You don’t want to dance anymore?” He taunts.

A particularly large spider lands on your cheek, giving you cause to shriek once more. You stumble backwards, tripping over the headstone you had come to visit, falling backwards and landing on your back. Your head slams into the ground, and when next you open your eyes, Bucky’s face looms over you.

His eyes are yellowed with age, and behind them emerge the mites that reside all throughout his body. But his hair is longer than it had been just moments ago, and one of the hands placed beside you is metal. And instead of lying on graveyard dirt, you’ve returned upon your bed, almost as if you’ve woken up. But Bucky’s body is still dead, riddled with insects that then land upon you and bury under your clothes, scuttling across your skin.

Bucky grips your wrists high above your head, pressing so heavily into your arms he’s surely leaving bruises. “Bucky please,” you beg, sob catching in your chest.

Tiny legs tickle your body, creeping into your hair and your ears and between your toes.

“Please,” you repeat, “Please.”

Bucky grabs you and throws you against the opposite wall, and you to crumple into a heap on the floor upon impact. He follows to where you’ve fallen, and stoops to lift you back up, his metal fingers pinning you to the wall by your neck. The expression he wears as pulls his flesh fist back is terrifying, filled with so much hate and bloodlust that you have to close your eyes. He lands a punch on your face, and your cheek splits open, warm blood oozing down your chin.

Bucky takes another hit, and another, and as pain fills your body, you think, _This isn’t Bucky; this is the Winter Soldier. This is who S.H.I.E.L.D. is hunting._

Your face and chest are sticky with blood, inadvertently trapping the weak legs of insects. The decrepit hand of the Winter Soldier with draping curtains of dead skin and jagged bones tightens around your throat and digs in deep, taking away your very breath. You’re choking. Again. Why is it that you’re always choking?

You gasp for breath, blood pooling in your mouth and dripping in thick ropes from your bottom lip. You feel the throbbing of your head grow louder, signaling your quickly approaching unconsciousness.

And then, suddenly, you can breathe again, and Bucky’s hands leave your neck, sending you falling to the floor. You collapse into a cowering ball of blood and bugs, coughing red goo violently. As your chest heaves desperately, the wriggling on millions of insects seems to intensify. They attack your eyes and fall into your mouth, squeezing into your open wounds. You don’t have the energy to even try and wipe them away.

“Stop, stop, please, leave me alone, leave me alone,” you moan, curling your fingers into your infested hair and pulling your knees even tighter to your chest.

“Calm,” you mutter under your breath. “Calm.” _Please. Calm._

Something long and suspiciously centipede-like snakes its way around your ankle, and you whimper.

“Calm.” _Calm, calm, calm._ “Please.” _Calm._

“Take control, Y/N.” It’s whispered in your ear, the warm breath of the man from the cell warming your cheek. “You have power, you have complete and utter control; _use it_.”

_Calm._

“Y/N?”

_Calm._

“Y/N, it’s Steve.”

_Calm. Please, God, calm._

“Y/N, please wake up!”

_Calm._

“Damnit! Bucky, get some water!”

_Calm. ___

You hear Steve’s voice and Bucky’s footsteps, but you don’t dare open your eyes. Not if all you’re going to wake up to are more abusive, bug covered corpses.

 _Calm._ You pause. Then, hesitantly: _control._

_I have control here, God damnit, and I said CALM._

Something cold is pressed against your cheek, and it’s then that you realize you’re never going to wake up, because you’re not actually dreaming. You open your eyes slowly, groaning in pain as you do so. Everything hurts, every breath you take, every minuscule movement. Even staying still is torture.

You notice the insects have left, but you still croak out, “Are they gone?”

Steve kneels beside you, holding a wet washcloth to your face. “You mean Bucky?” He asks.

“Bucky?” You try to force yourself into a sitting position, but Steve gently pushes you back down.

“Yes. Bucky…lost control, and attacked you,” Steve says, sounding guilty.

“But…I thought…I thought I had just imagined it all,” you say, infinitely confused. The bugs, the walking corpse of Bucky…how could it have all been real?

“I’m afraid not. Bucky sometimes falls into relapses of his time at Hydra, and often lashes out,” Steve explains.

“But there weren’t any…bugs?” You ask hesitantly.

Steve looks at you with deep concern. “Bugs?”

“Nevermind,” you mutter.

“Just relax, okay?” Steve says, ignoring your last statement. “You’ve received severe bruising on your wrists, chest, neck and ribs, not to mention that Grand Canyon of a cut across your cheek. That might need stitches, but your lip should heal on its own.”

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, leaning your head against the wall wearily.

“I regret what I said to you earlier, and I want to make it up to you,” Steve says.

You laugh halfheartedly. “Thanks, I guess,” you say.

“Y/N…” Steve sighs, removing his hand. “You must not blame Bucky for what happened.”

You shake your head, closing your eyes. “I don’t,” you murmur, promptly falling back asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Y/N = Your Name  
Mne nravyatsya vashi glaza = I like your eyes [Russian]  
I tvoy smekh = And your laugh [Russian]  
A ty = And you [Russian]  
Y/L/N = Your Last Name

***

The following morning, you wake up sore all over. Your back hurts, your chest hurts, your neck hurts, your face hurts. Someone – Steve, probably – had moved you from the floor to your bed since the night before. Despite your wish to just lay in bed for eternity, you force yourself upright, groaning as you do so. You yawn, wincing at the stretch of your face, and reach up to feel that the gash on your cheek has been sewn up.

You swing your legs off the side of the bed, and find Bucky watching you from the chair on the opposite side of the room. You try not to be too creeped out by this, but considering that he had literally thrown you around not that long ago made it difficult.

“Hey,” you say hoarsely.

Bucky doesn’t reply. He’s fully alive now, but he’s back to being expressionless. You feel your heart beat a little faster in fear, but do your best to ignore it. Steve had told you not to blame Bucky – and you don’t – but your previous encounter wasn’t too pleasant nonetheless.

You consider making a joke about your injuries, but figure Bucky wouldn’t find it that amusing. As you stand, you waver a bit on your feet, and carefully shuffle over to the mirror. The left side of your face is an utter mess. The lower half of your eye is blackened, as is most of your cheek, and a neatly stitched cut runs just under your cheekbone. Your lip is split rather badly, too, and your teeth ache a bit.

Then comes the neck. Bruising covers the entirety of it, finger-like marks clearly visible. One side is considerably darker than the other, leading you to believe that those are from the robotic hand. Your collarbone is decorated with purple as well, but you suppose it could have been much worse. Your first mission, and already you’re getting battle scars. At least you aren’t dead yet.

You walk over to your duffel bag, unzipping it and retrieving a gray hoodie, which covers up most of the bruising aside from your face.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky says, and you can tell he means it.

You swallow thickly. “It’s alright,” you manage to say.

Bucky starts to stand, but you automatically flinch away, taking a step back. Bucky reseats himself.

“You’re scared of me,” he observes.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, and really, you are. You can’t help it that your natural instinct is to protect yourself from him further harming you.

“It’s fine; I understand,” Bucky says. “I would fear me if I were you.”

“I don’t blame you, Bucky,” you say truthfully.

“You should,” Bucky says savagely, standing up and leaving.

You fall back onto the bed, thoroughly shaken. Clearly Bucky is upset about what happened, more so than he is letting on. This is turning into one hell of a mission.

***

Steve enters soon after his friend’s departure, and sits beside you on the bed. “Are you okay?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you sigh, “Yeah, I am.”

“Give it two or three weeks and you’ll make a full recovery,” he tells you.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say. “I know you don’t like me, so this has been more than I could have asked for.”

“It wouldn’t have been right for me to just leave you injured,” Steve says, almost offended that you would think he’d have done otherwise.

“It simply wouldn’t have been patriotic to do so,” you mock.

“Whatever,” Steve says, rolling his eyes though a smile curves his lips. “Get some rest, Y/N.”

***

You awake in the middle of the night, alone in your room, the house dead silent. You slide out of bed, intending to go get a glass of water from the kitchen. On your way through the living room, however, you find Bucky sitting on the couch, intently reading a book. You watch from the doorway, smiling faintly. It’s easy to forget someone’s past when you catch them in small windows of peacefulness.

Bucky rests his back against the armrest of the couch with his back to you, his knees bent so as to prop up his book. Feeling guilty about the morning and wanting to show Bucky you trusted him, you gather all of your courage and sit down on the opposite side of the couch.

Bucky looks up, startled, and quickly moves his feet to make more room for you. “I can go, if you want,” he offers, starting to rise.

“No,” you assure him, “No, you’re fine here.”

Bucky slowly relaxes back down onto the couch, still careful to keep his distance from you.

“Whatcha reading?” You inquire, bending closer to him to peek at the book’s title.

Bucky shows you the cover of the well loved book. You grin when you see the familiar image. “Good ol’ _Harry Potter_ ,” you say with relish. “Can’t go wrong with wizards.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Bucky says, “No?”

“No,” you repeat firmly.

Bucky watches you with a look you can’t quite place. There’s curiosity, yes, perhaps some amusement, and, if you didn’t know better, admiration. Feeling a bit self conscious, you clear your throat. “Say something in Russian,” you say, completely out of the blue.

“What?” Bucky asks, startled by the abrupt request.

“I never managed to pick up another language when I was in school. Maybe you could teach me a little Russian?” You ask, suddenly shy.

“ _Mne nravyatsya vashi glaza_ ,” he says.

You laugh. “What does that mean?”

Bucky’s lips curve slightly. “ _I tvoy smekh_.”

“C’mon, Buck,” you complain, nudging his leg with your elbow.

“ _A ty_.” Bucky’s blue eyes stare into yours, and you get the distinct feeling he’s just said something intimate.

You swallow, hard, your gaze still glued to Bucky’s. “What does that mean?” You whisper.

“I don’t know,” he whispers back.

Your heart pounds, but this time it’s not out of fear.

Then Bucky jerks up without warning, standing so quickly that the book falls to the floor. He braces himself against the doorway, as if he might fall over, and he faces away from you, his head bowed. You stand as well, taking hesitant steps towards him.

“Bucky?” You say softly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He pushes your hand away roughly, and stumbles away even further into the hallway. “Get away from me,” he growls, his voice low and taut with anger.

Confused, you wonder, “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing.” Bucky spits the word as if it leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

“I don’t understand.” You sound miserable, but you don’t think Bucky picks up on this.

He whirls around, eyes blazing. “I did this,” he says furiously, gesturing to your ruined skin. “I _hurt you_.”

You shook your head, and it took everything inside you not to cry. “It’s not your fault,” you tell him, trying to inch closer to console him.

“YES IT IS!” Bucky roars, and you flinch, recoiling from the harshness of his voice.

There’s a clatter from somewhere in the back of the house, and Steve comes skidding into the room. “What the hell is going on?” He demands, looking disoriented and tense. 

Bucky casts a glare that carries from you to Steve, and then he storms away. You wince as the kitchen door slams shut, and again when Steve turns his angry gaze to you. “What did you do, Y/N?” He says, sounding dangerously calm and slightly betrayed, before exiting the house as well.

You sink to the floor, clutching the couch for support and gasping for breath. How did this happen? One minute you and Bucky were having a nice, playful conversation, and the next he was murderous. Tears start to slide down your cheeks, and your heart feels fit to burst.

_What did I do?_

***

The first time you met Tony Stark, you were welcomed into his extravagant home by the disturbingly humanoid voice of his computer system.

“Good morning, Miss Y/L/N,” FRIDAY had greeted.

“Good morning to you too,” you replied, unsure of how one was supposed to respond to such an advanced piece of technology.

“Thank you,” FRIDAY said politely, “Mr. Stark is waiting for you in the lounge.”

Following FRIDAY’s instructions, you found that Tony was indeed waiting for you. He sat on an expensive couch, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a jelly donut in the other. He stood up as soon as he saw you, and, quickly swallowing his bite of donut, said, “Please, come in, Y/N. Make yourself at home.”

You perched yourself on the edge of the chair across from him, your posture rigid. It was awkward, being in the home of the famous Tony Stark, especially after having been recruited to S.H.I.E.L.D. less than 24 hours before. Stark was obviously keeping an eye on who S.H.I.E.L.D. hired, and you just hoped he didn’t also keep an eye on HYDRA’s prisoners.

“Would you like a donut?” Tony inquired, holding out a box of donuts in offering. “I think there are some eclairs in there somewhere; those are your favorite, yes?”

“How did you know that?” You asked, your internal alarm system blaring. If a stranger with enough intelligence knew your favorite dessert, they probably knew your top secret superpowers of destruction.

Tony winked at you. “I have my resources.” He shook the box a little. “Take one. Seriously. They’re not poisoned.”

“No, thank you,” you said. Your stomach roiled nervously, and you thought that if you ate anything you’d surely puke.

With a shrug, Tony set the box down. “Suit yourself.” Then, leaning back and propping his feet on the table, he said, “So, Y/N. I hear you’ve just been hired by S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You nodded your head in confirmation, but didn’t trust yourself to say anything yet.

“Welcome to the club,” Tony said with a grin.

“Thanks,” you managed to say.

Giving you a quick onceover, Tony told you, “Don’t worry, Y/N. Once S.H.I.E.L.D. trains you up a bit, you’ll be fine. Might even get to join the Avengers.”

Your pulse races. _Does he know?_

“I actually have a very important meeting regarding superheroes and vigilantes in –” Tony glances at his watch “– about five minutes. But please, Y/N; if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.” Tony stands up and I follow suit. He gives you a crooked smile and claps a hand on your shoulder.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N,” Tony said. “Pepper will walk you out.” He shifts his gaze to the doorway, where the slim, blonde figure of Pepper Potts stands.

“You have to go now, Tony,” she reminds him, gentle but stern. “It’s not in your best interest to keep these guys waiting.”

Tony moves to leave the room, but pauses when he reaches Pepper. Placing a kiss on her lips, he says, “I like to keep people guessing.”

Pepper smiles indulgently. “That’s nice, dear. Now go.”

Tony retreated, and Pepper turned towards you. “Come on; I’ll show you out.”

She turned, and you followed in silence. When you reached the door, Pepper held out her hand for you to shake. Swallowing your fear, you wrap your fingers around hers. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Y/L/N,” she said.

“You –” you falter, and for a fraction of a second you were in her head. Pepper’s thoughts and emotions soared, bouncing from Tony to the company to you to S.H.I.E.L.D. “– too.” You quickly released Pepper’s hand, and hurried out of the house, leaving Tony’s girlfriend extremely confused behind you.

***

You had met Tony nearly a year ago, and since then he had reached out to you at least once every week. He was always inviting you to come to parties or nice dinners with he and Pepper, and sometimes he’d branch out and tell you to come hang out with the Avengers. You never accepted any of these, of course, but now, sitting on the floor of Bucky’s temporary house crying, you recall Tony Stark.

Tony Stark, the beloved Iron Man – genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist – was the first person who had actually extended his hand to you in friendship. Coulson simply views you as one of his agents, a pawn he can move whenever he needs. Skye and her team barely look at you twice. Nobody else at S.H.I.E.L.D. ever considers talking to you outside of a work environment, and when you’re at home you always avoid having to interact with people in fear that you might somehow mess something up. Steve practically hates you and Bucky…well, you don’t know what’s going on with Bucky.

But Tony Stark? All he ever does is show you kindness, and treat you like a normal human being. You decide right then and there that the next time Tony invites you to something, you’re going to accept. You might even make the first move this time; maybe you’ll call him. Maybe he can rescue you from this screwed up mission.


End file.
